


100 Themes Challenge

by ticktockclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticktockclockwork/pseuds/ticktockclockwork





	100 Themes Challenge

Two in the morning. Club number four. Not enough people to block out the noises in his head or the humming in his veins. He needed more, more contact, more energy, more sick sour breaths to keep him busy so that when he finally went down he crashed with the silence of a dead man’s pleasure. He could only just handle what was in his mind, could only just hold onto the sanity that so few understood, and he did so with help, dangerous and cruel. He had his chemical shackles and he wore them gladly, dragging them across the ground and dancing to the sound of moans, whimpers and sighs.

The street was busy with easy girls and easier boys, all half his age and twice as sweet. His vision was rough around the edges and he could feel the pull in his mind that told him of the migraine he’d have in the morning. He pushed past a group of teens, looking down at them with eyes wicked sharp and unforgiving. They were caught, and they were obvious, with their want and need and desire to touch and grab and grip while at the same time shy away from the man before them. He was no god, no supranatural being. He was just a man, with eyes that knew, and a mouth that could wound.

The doorman didn’t stop him, as he had a face this city knew. And while they did not respect it, they knew to mind it when it came around their way. He left his coat at the door, pulling down the sleeves of his shirt, the slim material hanging loose on his sharp angled frame. This place was new, and new was good. No familiar memories to piss him off, no whimpering sods to keep him tied down. He needed a change and he’d find it here.

The music was loud, as it was in all clubs, nearly monotonous with its constant bass and whiney sopranos. It was boring but it would do. It worked well enough to block out the near roaring noise in his head, all the calculations and observations, the wicked remarks and personal condemnations. It was all chaos in his mind and he did his best to keep it subdued. Narcotics and hallucinogens helped. Mindless physical contact did as well.

The crowd loved him and he them and as he slid in amongst all the rest of the anonymous faces (that were never completely anonymous to him) he found himself a small pocket to dance in, though the personal space was quickly filled with people pressing up against him, holding hips, hands and chests. He was tense to start, natural instinct and a lack of trust kicking in, but then the human warmth seeped into his bones and he sank down into the arms of the others. He closed his eyes, let his head tip back, and let himself fall into the movements of everyone else.

When the song changed, he barely noticed. He was moving, body no longer his, but part of the rest. It wasn’t until he felt the shift in beat, a shift towards something more carnal, more organic that he looked up. The DJ was different now, no longer the typical club pounder with plastic beads and plastic hair but instead just a man. He looked so out of place, with his sandy hair and simple black shirt. But he owned that stage, commanding the music with the twist and flick and push of his fingers. He held headphones up to his ear, head and body and feet all moving to the music he was torturing and manipulating and twisting. The original was not his but what came out of those speakers was and it was more volatile and addicting for the crowd than any drugs melting in their mouths. His music, his beats were intoxicating and soon the crowd was moving as one, still unable to hear but experiencing everyone else differently.

And Sherlock found he couldn’t look away. The thoughts in his head were silent, the vibration in his body now purely from the drugs in his system. He was locked, captivated by this entirely lackluster man. The other seemed so lost in his own world, though, and that just would not do. Sherlock was not to be ignored, not by the majority of the normal population, all of which he seemed to hate. But especially not by the one who’s attention he actually wanted.

Disentangling himself from the weak limbs trying to hold onto his frame, he pulled out from the crowd and moved along the edges of the club. The air was almost too thick to breathe, rich with sweat and lust and denial. He moved around steel girders and up a flight of crowded stairs, moving closer to the stage, closer to the DJ. He needed to know him, needed to have him but there were too many people in his way. There were those lingering around, pressed up against walls, mingling in this noise filled club to yell petty thoughts at one another. And most importantly and most irritatingly, there were the stage guards, blocking him from going up there.

“Let me pass!” He yelled to them over the riveting pulses coming from the amps not far from them.

“Back off, man, we can’t let you up here.”

“I wasn’t asking.” He snarled and they laughed, in his face, and pushed him back. Apparently his face, nameless as it was at the moment, wasn’t getting him through this blocked door. He could pay them off but he wasn’t going to waste his money. “Fine.” He looked past them. The DJ was getting off the stage, now. He was just a guest then, come up to entertain the crowd for a bit but nothing more. “What’s his name?” The guard looked over his shoulder.

“Watson. John Watson. He plays here when he comes through town.”

“How long is he staying?”

“Till Tuesday.”

And that was all the information he needed as he backed away from the guard and turned to slip back in amongst the bodies and the breaths, eyes on the man, this John Watson.


End file.
